Dear Santa

December 12, 2001|By Liz Doup Staff Writer

Yes, there is a Santa Claus, and he lives in a rural enclave northeast of Orlando named Christmas, naturally.

Every year, as he has for the past 33 years, Santa -- also known as Jack James, 77, a retired military electrical engineer -- reads thousands of letters addressed to Santa, then responds with a postcard bearing his jolly image.

But, this year, everything isn't quite so merry and bright. Jack is opening Santa's mail wearing a mask and lavender gloves, courtesy of the U.S. Postal Service and the anthrax anxiety that's taken a little ho-ho-ho out of the holidays.

But not for Jack -- uh, Santa. He and his wife, Alice, 75 -- Mrs. Claus if you please -- talked it over with the local postmaster and all agreed: The Santa mail must go through.

"We decided, what the heck, we'd just go for it," Jack says. "We didn't want to disappoint the kids."

Kids, after all, have written Santa as long as he's been around. Nationwide, post offices get thousands of Santa letters each year, and each postal district decides how to handle that mail.

In Santa Claus, Ind., a tiny town of 2,000 people, volunteers have answered kids' letters since Postmaster James Martin picked up a pen back in 1914. In South Florida, postal employees take on that task, sometimes assisted by helpful elves -- high school service clubs, for instance.

Like Jack, all those involved say anthrax fears won't crush their Christmas spirit.

"The anthrax scare isn't going to stop us from handling letters for Santa," says Enola Rice, spokesman for the South Florida district of the U.S. Postal Service. "It's something we look forward to."

Looking the part

At Santa's home in Christmas, the holiday starts the day after Thanksgiving when Jack begins answering letters that start arriving in January.

Yes, January.

"They write that they didn't get something they wanted, so they're starting early," Alice says. (This was especially true for the January following the Cabbage Patch doll craze in the '80s, a time Alice refers to as "the Cabbage Patch Crisis.")

With his snow-white beard and a bit of a belly, Jack does look the part. So does his "workshop." He writes at a table in a room filled with dozens of tiny Santa figurines and a clock that chimes Christmas tunes. On a pillow tossed on a nearby chair: This House Belongs to Santa.

A brown paper box is stacked with letters, just a fraction of the 6,000 he estimates he'll receive by Dec. 25. Kids write from California and Connecticut, Mississippi and Michigan, Arizona and Arkansas. Plenty of postmarks come from Florida, too, and, occasionally, letters arrive from around the globe.

This year Jack opens letters on his front porch, wearing gloves and a mask. If anything suspicious spills out, at least it won't be in the house, he reasons. Problem is, most Santa letters fall in the "suspicious" category.

They're bulky or lack return addresses. They have incorrect postage (or no postage or, on one letter that actually was delivered to the Christmas Post Office this year, a dove sticker.)

Children often add candy canes that dissolve into a white powder. Or cookies that crumble into brown powder.

"Here, have a sucker," Jack says, dipping into a bulky envelope and pulling out the candy.

He's opened 500 letters so far without a problem. Unless you count the creative spelling and challenged penmanship.

As if moms and dads don't know already, take note: So are Barbie and her endless accessories.

To keep current on toys, Jack and Alice tune into Saturday-morning cartoons during the holiday season. In years past, they scoured toy stores like detectives. Not that they promise kids any toys, you understand. The postcard only contains Santa's photo and signature.

But learning what kids want is a fascinating education. Jack, for instance, remembers the first time a child asked for "Transformers."

With his engineering background, he thought that meant a power transformer. That's when he knew he needed more education in the toy department.

Over time, the couple has grown accustomed to Christmas greed, though it bears no resemblance to Jack's North Carolina childhood when a single pair of "cowboy gloves" made his Christmas complete.

Today kids send letters asking for dozens of toys, sometimes with pictures and prices attached, including where Santa can buy them. One child listed about 20 items, prioritized by asterisks. "One meant he'd like to have it, two meant he definitely wanted it and three meant he had to have it," Jack says, shaking his head.